


The Aspirations of Angels

by Geonn



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1890, a favor for a friend of Watson's turns into a harrowing ordeal for Helen Magnus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aspirations of Angels

_What can we know? What are we all? Poor silly half-brained things peering out at the infinite, with the aspirations of angels and the instincts of beasts._ \- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1894

The dangerous thing, and the thing that gave her hope, was that he could appear at any time. She couldn't wait at the window, and there was never a chance she would hear a carriage approaching and wonder if it was his return. One day he would just be there, standing in the room behind her. That knowledge gave every room a trap door, and it made every moment fraught with possible terror. So she rarely left her rooms, preferring to work on the day-to-day tasks of the Sanctuary. The neighbors had complained twice this week about unusual noises coming from her property; she was sure the police thought James was an abusive spouse, but she couldn't very well tell them the truth of the matter.

She was in the midst of processing the newest arrival, an Abnormal who insisted on being called Frederick, when James entered her sitting room. She offered him a weary smile and returned to her papers, running her index finger along her eyebrow as she reread what she had written. She spotted a spelling error and muttered, "Damn it." She rubbed out the mistake and carefully corrected it as James rounded the edge of the desk.

"Helen..."

She closed her eyes in anticipation of his well-worn argument. "I'm fine, James. I spent many years managing my own time before you came along to dote upon me."

James smiled. "Relax, Helen. That's not the purpose of this visit. Although it's telling that you feel guilty enough..."

"James," Helen said. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes, and he cut off the rest of what he was going to say.

He eyed the papers she'd spent the night working on and walked to the window. "A friend of mine is in London for the weekend, and he was hoping I would be able to help him with an unusual situation."

"How unusual?" Helen asked.

"Quite," James said. He turned and raised an eyebrow. "That is our stock in trade, after all."

Helen managed a smile. "This friend of yours. Would he happen to be a writer?"

"And to think Arthur cast me as the detective."

"What is it this time? Mermen? Fairies?" She closed the ledger on her half-finished report and turned to face James. "The man believes any and every tall tale he overhears in a pub. It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't continually drawing us into his flights of fancy."

"Some might say everything about this place is a flight of fancy. Besides, he has proven to be helpful a handful of times." Helen stared at him and James had to smile. "All right, perhaps that is straining the definition of 'helpful.' But the matter remains that you have been cloistered in this office for far too long. Fresh air and moonlight could do you a world of good. It has been two years since--"

"I'm painfully aware of how long it's been, James," she said. She stood and turned away from him, hiding her expression. Two years since that freezing night in a dirty London alley, the last time she saw John. Watson had reluctantly assisted her in covering up the latest victim. No one at Scotland Yard knew the infamous Ripper was to blame for poor Mary's demise.

Sensing he had gone too far, James attempted to steer the conversation back onto safer ground. "I also thought you would be interested in knowing that Arthur has extended to me a promise if we agree to help him with this matter."

Helen smirked. "Can't wait to hear this."

James paused, building the drama before he said, "He's sworn to kill Sherlock."

That got Helen's attention. "You're joking."

"He's grown bored with the stories, if you can believe that." He arched an eyebrow, sarcastic and self-effacing. "He'd rather focus on more important ventures such as his medical practice, his historical novels. If I help him tonight, he'll put pen to paper and Sherlock will be no more within a matter of weeks."

Helen still couldn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes was a worldwide phenomenon. It was a lark originally written by a bored physician looking for a way to honor one of his friends. The Sanctuary had to be kept quiet, of course, and James had no interest in being in the spotlight. The character of Sherlock Holmes was created, with _John_ Watson as his faithful apprentice. Helen saw a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle in Watson, in the wonder and awe he heaped upon his ingenious friend.

"He has grown lazy," Helen muttered. She turned to face him again, having composed herself. "I assume you saw the error in the latest manuscript?"

James chuckled. " _The Man With the Twisted Lip,_ in which John Watson is inexplicably referred to as James by his wife? Yes, I found that amusing. He'd already sent the manuscript to the _Strand_ , so it was too late to change. Arthur considered it a sign that the end was near. I quite look forward to how he pulls it off."

Helen said, "An evening out of our lives in exchange for freedom from that infernal detective. I shudder to think what the favor entails."

James held up his hand, the fingers pinched around the stem of a white rose. "Hardly anything taxing." He closed the fingers of the other hand around the rose. He squeezed and released, and the rose had become red. "We just have to attend a simple magic show."

"Sounds innocent enough."

The rose disappeared in a flash of flame, and James shook his seared fingers. "It always does, at first."

#

Helen stood before her open wardrobe and stared at her option as if preparing to stick her hand into a fox trap. They had ample time before they had to be at the theatre, but she felt as if she could feel every tick of the clock at the base of her skull as she tried to make a decision. She couldn't wear those gloves, for those were the gloves she had worn with John to see _Hamlet_. Those shoes were right out of the question because she had carried them while walking with John through the thick fog after a concert. And the dress with the "small infernal buttons"... how would she ever wear that again?

There was a knock on the door and then James' tentative voice. "Helen?"

"You can come in. I'm still dressed."

The door opened and James tentatively entered the room. He looked at her, looked at the open wardrobe, and seemed to connect the two perfectly. It was the most damnable trick, to have all her secrets laid bare before him. She pressed her lips together as he crossed the room and stood just behind her right shoulder to examine the hanging clothes. "There's nothing bought within the last two years?"

"When have I had the time to shop?" Helen asked quietly.

James stepped forward and began to sort through the clothes. Helen thought to stop him, but really there was no point. She waited while he examined each outfit in turn, eliminating each for one reason or another. Finally, he chose a royal purple dress with a ruffled white bodice. He held it by the hanger, letting it drape across his left arm as he presented it to her. "John may have appreciated all of your different outfits, but everyone appreciated this one."

She took the dress from him, grateful to have the decision taken out of her hands. She kissed him on the cheek and said, "Thank you, James."

He bowed slightly and moved past her to the door. "I'll wait for you downstairs." Helen nodded and watched him go, waiting until he was gone before she looked down at the dress he had chosen. She ran her fingers over the material and decided it was as good as anything. She spread it across the foot of her bed and began undressing.

#

Arthur Conan Doyle was standing on the street corner outside the theatre, a proper gentleman in a coat and tails. He had one hand fisted in the small of his back, the other cradling a pocket watch as he gazed up and down the street. His mustache twisted as his lips pursed with consternation at the sight of their carriage. He moved to open the door before the passengers could do it themselves. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"And miss a chance to catch up with you, old friend?" James said. "Arthur Conan Doyle, may I introduce my compatriot, Dr. Helen Magnus."

Helen smiled and dipped her chin in greeting, and Arthur was momentarily struck silent by the side of her. She wore a black wool hat with a discreet veil of tulle tucked along the wide brim so it wouldn't obscure her vision. Arthur touched her fingers and said, "Charmed."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Conan Doyle. I greatly enjoy your stories." She smirked, not having to see James to know he was rolling his eyes.

James said, "Perhaps you could explain to us the nature of this... sighting."

"Yes, of course," Arthur said. He tore his gaze away from Helen and led them toward the main entrance of the theatre. "A few weeks ago an acquaintance of mine dragged me to this show. The Astounding Zielinski. I didn't expect much in the way of entertainment, but I was... well, I'll let you see for yourselves. I've been back several times, and I have no doubt that this is more in your wheelhouse than mine." He waved three tickets to the usher as he led them through the open doors and into the lobby. The show was about to begin, and the crowds were pouring through the three doors to the seating area.

The lobby was decorated with gaudy posters depicting a gaunt man in a turban glowering amid swirling specters and cavorting goblins. His hand was extended as if he was moments away from corralling the creatures to his whims. Beneath the legend declaring his name was an admonition that the show was "NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART!" Arthur hardly gave the posters a second glance as he hurried past them, leading Helen and James to the balcony stairs.

"At first I believed I was merely gullible," Arthur said as he led them up. "But I have seen it too many times, from too many vantages, for it to be a mere illusion."

They reached Arthur's seats, a private box that looked directly down onto the stage, and he gestured for them to step inside. Helen took her seat before the men followed suit. Arthur leaned forward, one hand on the railing as the other pointed toward the stage. "The man has one of your Abbies in his employ," Arthur said, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.

"We prefer to call them Abnormals," Helen said with a pointed look at James.

"Whatever you call them," Arthur said. "You will see one in action this evening. I have no doubt."

Helen and James exchanged a look as the lights dimmed and the electric footlights, a novelty Helen had yet to adjust to, illuminated the stage.

Zielinski moved onto the stage as if it was just a pit-stop to some other, more important function he had to attend. He stopped center stage on the thrust, his right foot extended so that his body was turned slightly toward the audience. At this position, the audience surrounded him on three sides. He wore a tuxedo underneath a voluminous velvet cloak, which he slung over one shoulder to free his left hand.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Zielinski. Some in my trade denote themselves with hyperbole. The Amazing." He twisted his wrist and a dove flew out over the audience. It didn't seem to have come from his sleeve; to Helen's eye, it seemed to have just appeared in his palm. "The Magnificent." Another twist, and another dove sent flying. The audience reacted with whispered gasps. "The Great." A third and final dove arced out and swung back toward the stage. Zielinski pressed his palm against his chest with the elbow sticking out, and the doves landed on his upper arm.

"I have no need for such qualifiers. I promise only astonishment."

He swept the doves off his arm and they fell to the stage. Zielinski stepped back, and the doves crashed into the hard wood and shattered like glass.

The audience applauded, and Helen looked at James again. He raised an eyebrow, stroking his upper lip as Zielinski moved deeper onto the stage. Two assistants in red and black corsets had arrived, moving a table onto center stage.

Arthur leaned forward and whispered, "You haven't seen anything yet."

Zielinski picked up a box from the table and turned it around in his hands so the audience could see the opening in the bottom. "An ordinary box," he said. He undid a clasp and lowered it over the head of his assistant. He fixed the clasp, made sure it was secured, and then picked up a wicked-looking sword off the table. "An ordinary scythe." He swung it dramatically and pressed it against the assistant's throat beneath the box.

Then he swung around and lopped off the head of the other assistant.

Even Helen gasped, covering her mouth with her fingers as the unboxed assistant slumped to the floor. There was blood, massive amounts of it, and the audience was shrieking. Zielinski held up his empty hand for silence and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please... please, remain calm!"

James put a hand on her arm, and Helen nodded that she was all right.

The assistant with the box on her head remained calm, standing in her previous pose. Helen assumed she couldn't hear the commotion and suddenly feared for the woman's safety.

When the shrieking and shouting had stopped, Zielinski crouched and picked up the decapitated assistant's body. He placed it on the table and covered it with a cloth. Then he walked to the boxed assistant and wrapped a second cloth around her body. He pulled it taut, her curves plainly visible against the cotton. Then he pulled, the body disappeared, and the boxed head tumbled to the ground.

Another shriek went up as Zielinski casually picked up the box and carried it to the table. He placed it at the top of the sheet and undid the clasp. The box was pulled away, and the assistant sat up. She was whole, intact, and smiling. There was a moment of stunned silence before the audience began to tentatively applaud. Zielinski helped the woman up off the table and she took a bow, touched her neck so everyone could see that it was in fact still in one piece.

Zielinski picked up the first assistant's head, which had rolled to the shadows at the back of the stage. He juggled it from one hand to the other before he stepped onto the thrust again. "She never was a very good assistant," he said casually. "Nothing in her skull but feathers." He grabbed the hair with both hands and pulled. The head exploded in a flapping mass of three doves.

"Good lord," Helen said.

Arthur muttered, "The official line is that the first assistant's just a mannequin, and your eye is drawn to the first one just 'cause she's moving about. But I _watched_. Once I knew it was comin', I watched." Helen noticed his accent had slipped and become more common with fear. "That woman is as alive as you and me and James. And I'll tell you another thing... she don't _ever_ see that sword comin' until the last second."

James said, "And what makes you think there's an Abnormal involved?"

"You haven't seen the entire show. Either there's one working behind the scenes making his pranks work, or he's one himself. Whichever it is, I thought I should bring it to your attention." He looked down at the stage, anger and confusion in his eyes. "It's a different girl every night. The one he... It makes me fear the worse. And if he is exploiting an Abnormal ability, the police will be helpless to stop him. Finding the truth is worth Sherlock's life."

"We'll do our best to find the answer," Helen said. She put her hand on Arthur's and then glanced at James. She tilted her head toward the door and he nodded. She stood and left the box, looking both ways down the corridor before she descended the stairs. The lobby was still empty, save for a guard at each of the three doors leading into the seating area. The guard closest to the stairs stepped forward to intercept her.

"Pardon me, ma'am..."

"I'm sorry. The blood!" Helen gasped. She fanned her hand in front of her face. "Good heavens, I thought I would faint dead away!"

"There are ample warnings posted, ma'am," the guard said.

"I'm well aware," Helen snapped. "But I had no intention to see a murder this evening! Of all the things to pass off as _entertainment_." She swallowed heavily and said, "I must splash some water on my face. Please, the loo..."

The guard turned and silently conferred with his companions. One of them shrugged, and the one who had done all the talking said, "Yeah, awright. Just down there. Be quick about it."

"I'm surprised there's not a physician on duty. No one has ever needed medical attention following the show?"

"It's all smoke and mirrors, innit?" the man said. "Erry-one knows, ain't none of it real. People really thought a lady was gettin' sawed in two here, we'd have the coppers hounding us night and day. Just a show, lady."

Helen blinked her eyes rapidly and continued to fake her flustered condition. "Well it's all a bit too real for my tastes, thank you very much. You said this way?" The guard nodded and Helen moved off down the corridor. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guards weren't watching her before she stopped trembling and began to walk with a sense of purpose. She found the loo and kept walking. She had an excuse planned if the guards came to find her, a plan that she was looking for an exit to get a breath of fresh air before returning to her seat.

The corridor circled the seating area, and she passed through several doors before she found one marked "Backstage. Authorized Personnel Only." She tested the doorknob and found it locked, pressing her lips together in consternation. She had planned to learn how to pick a lock, but there just hadn't been enough time.

She was considering how much damage it would cause if she kicked the door in when a dark-skinned man in a black shirt and slacks appeared at the end of the hall.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. He rushed toward her before Helen could make an excuse. "Zielinski wants all the assistants on their spots, in costume, 'alf an hour before they're needed. You ever wanna work again, you'll get a move on, missy. Which act you in?"

Helen acquired a Cockney accent when she opened her mouth. "The final act, sah. Thought I had time for a smoke, 'at's all."

"God help us," the man muttered. He had a huge key ring on his belt and used it to unlock the backstage door. "In, in. 'Fore he sees you ain't in the right spot. Don't know why I'm riskin' my neck for some dumb twit..."

Helen thanked him as she hurried into the darkness, and the man locked the door behind her. The man had come inside with her, but his clothing and skin were too dark for her to see him in the shadows. She moved to her right, hoping he had someplace he had to be, and moved between a brick wall and a heavy curtain. A few people passed her going the opposite direction but they were all too busy to pay her any attention.

She found the staging area and watched Zielinski perform another trick from the wings. His lovely assistant was placed into a glass casket full of water, waving to the audience to show she was still a living person and not a mannequin. He drew a sheet over the tank and stepped in front of it to perform a trick with a deck of cards, his voice echoing throughout the room as he shuffled.

The sheet didn't obscure the back of the tank, and Helen watched the woman float for a bit, moving her hands and her feet to keep from sinking to the bottom. Helen couldn't figure out what the trick was. After Zielinski finished with the cards, he lowered the sheet to show that his assistant was still underwater and alive. Helen checked her pocket watch; it had been nearly four minutes.

"You're not supposed to be back here."

Helen turned and saw a woman in a revealing corset and gown standing a few feet behind her. Two other women were with her, but their attention was on the stage. Helen noticed that one of them was nearly identical to the woman who was in the tank.

"These aren't tricks, are they?" Helen said.

The women looked at each other and then the leader said, "You should perhaps leave before you are discovered."

"I want to help you," Helen said. "Are you all sisters?"

"No," the leader said. "They are echoes. Allow me to demonstrate." She closed her eyes and moved slowly forward. For a moment, Helen thought her vision was blurring. Then the woman split apart into two separate but identical individuals. The second woman was blonde, whereas the first woman was brunette, but the resemblance was otherwise uncanny.

"My God," Helen gasped. "Is she... living?"

"Of course I'm living," the blonde said meekly. She clutched her hands in front of her and bowed her head, deferring to the first woman.

"My name is Helen Magnus. I can help you, and give you a safe haven from this life."

"You may call me Echo," the leader said. "It is the only name used for us."

Helen nodded to the other women and said, "Please. He does not have to slaughter you any longer."

"The security is far too strong tonight," Echo said. "We would never escape unseen."

The blonde started to speak, but bit her bottom lip. Echo turned to her, and something seemed to pass between them. "Ah. Yes... I had forgotten. Master Zielinski often sleeps late the morning following a performance. There is a chance my sisters and I would all be able to escape tomorrow morning, before first light."

Helen looked over her shoulder to make sure Zielinski hadn't spotted her. The tank was empty, but Helen could see a trapdoor in the bottom. The woman had obviously drowned, and Helen looked at the blonde standing in front of her. "You're supposed to be the girl who just drowned. Miraculously freed from her watery grave."

The blonde nodded sadly.

Echo said, "He discovered us in Finland five years ago. He offered us wealth and fortune, fame. But all he does is murder our sisters." She blinked away tears.

Helen touched Echo's hand. "You won't have to worry about him after tonight." She hated the idea of leaving the women to finish the show, but she had no other choice. If they were captured by Zielinski's security, he would increase security and the women would be trapped.

"Take Echo," the blonde suddenly said. She pushed her sister forward. "She is the mother of us all. We can't duplicate ourselves. Even if you cannot rescue us all, you can get her to safety."

"No," Echo said. "Either we all go or none of us do." To Helen, she said, "One of us will be at the stage entrance tomorrow morning to let you inside. Those of us who survive tonight's program will be ready."

"I'll have a friend with me, someone who will assist in the escape. Don't worry. This is the last night you will be forced to watch your sisters die on stage."

Echo blinked away her tears and bowed to kiss Helen's hand. "Bless you, milady."

Helen nodded and said, "I should go before I'm discovered. I am sorry..."

"You are doing what you can, and for that we are grateful. Please, go before he takes his break."

Helen turned and stepped back into the curtained shadows at the back of the stage. By the time she reached the outer corridor, she was in tears. The thought of those girls lining up backstage, waiting for their turn to be senselessly slaughtered on stage, tore at her heart. She stood with her face to the wall until her tears subsided, brushing at her face with a handkerchief and not giving any thought to destroying her makeup. When she felt presentable again, she returned to the balcony where Arthur and James were waiting.

Zielinski was onstage bowing after another successful revelation. The blonde woman was standing beside the empty tank, bone dry and very much alive, showing her teeth in a bright smile.

"What did you discover?" James asked.

Helen said, "We have to stop him by whatever means necessary."

James nodded and took her hand in his.

#

Helen filled James in on the sordid details during the carriage ride back to the Sanctuary. After she told him what she had learned, and they set up their plan for the morning, Helen lapsed into silence. She watched the street pass by out the window, and James was content to let her brood.

Later, shortly after her bath, there was a quiet knock on her bedroom door. "Come in, James." The door opened and he paused for a moment when he saw her state of undress. She had changed out of her gown into a loose-fitting kimono, but he had seen her wearing less. He closed the door and Helen said, "I know why you're here."

"Tonight you watched a man decapitate a woman with a large knife. I'd hardly have to be Sherlock Holmes to know where your mind went."

Helen blinked rapidly.

"I do apologize, Helen. I finally convince you to leave the Sanctuary to get your mind off Druitt and this is the result." He sighed. "If I had only known--"

"But you didn't," Helen said softly. "James, I don't blame you. Or Arthur. There are many new things in this world of ours, but misogyny is not one of them. You don't have to apologize every time it crosses my path."

James moved closer to her. "Still, it could not have been easy to witness."

"No," Helen said. "Those poor women, standing there... knowing what was in store for them. I couldn't bear it, James."

"If you had wanted to leave--"

"No," Helen said insistently. "I owed it to them. To mourn. I was the only one who knew the truth."

James put a hand on Helen's shoulder. She covered the hand with her own and turned to face him. "Thank you for being there for me, James. I wouldn't have been able to bear it alone." She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, ignoring the scratchiness of his whiskers. She started to pull back but hesitated, shifting her head just slightly and pressing her lips fully to his. James held the kiss, his other hand resting on Helen's upper arm.

Helen broke the kiss, but didn't withdraw. She kept her eyes closed, her cheek pressed to his. She loved his hands on her, their weight and strength. His palms were warm through the thin material of her robe, and she wanted to feel it elsewhere on her body. James tightened his hand on her shoulder and said, "Helen..."

"I'm about to take advantage of you, James," she whispered. "You should leave the room before I give in."

"Why would I want to do that?" he said softly. He stepped back and touched his finger to her chin. She lifted her head and looked at him, and he leaned in to lightly kiss her bottom lip. "Use me as you will, if it gets you to the morning."

Helen put her hands on his chest, slipping them into the warmth of his jacket. She could feel his heart pounding, pleased to see that she caused such a reaction in him. James' attraction to her was hardly a secret; she felt horrible for attempting to take advantage of him in this way. She shook her head and stepped back.

James kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger against her skin for a moment before he stepped away as well. "Good night, Helen."

He started to turn, but Helen pulled him back to her. Their lips met in a passionate kiss, and Helen squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't imagining he was someone else, and she didn't intend to succumb to the fantasy that she had used so often in the past two years. For once, she wanted something different. She wanted to be reminded that there was room outside of John Druitt's arms. She parted James' lips with her tongue and he accepted it into his mouth.

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and James dropped his arms to let it slide to the floor. He stepped forward until her shoulders met the side of her wardrobe, and she gasped as he pressed his full weight against her. She could feel his hardness in his trousers, thick and hard against her hip, and she resisted the urge to reach for it. John had appreciated when she took the initiative, but she didn't know how James would react.

He broke the kiss and moved his lips to her neck, breathing deeply the scent of her soap. His tongue flicked the shell of her ear and Helen ran her hands down his chest to the waistband of his pants. Her lips were close enough to his ear that her breath washed over it when she whispered, "May I?"

"Yes, yes," he gasped.

Helen pushed her hand between the tail of his shirt and his pants, finding his underwear and pushing it aside. They both gasped as her fingers wrapped around him. His turned into a frantic, desperate moan, and he pulled the bottom halves of her robe apart. He grabbed the material of her slip and lifted it out of the way, pressing between her thighs. Helen lifted her left leg and hooked it on his thigh, pinning him against her as they kissed again. She ran two fingertips along the underside of his shaft, up to the tip which she loosely captured in her fingers.

"James," she moaned against his mouth. She fumbled with the catch of his trousers with her free hand, finally getting them open and guiding him forward. He placed one hand flat against the wardrobe's side, eyes closed as she guided his erection forward. When the tip brushed her labia, James grunted and the sweat seemed to pour from his forehead. She reached up with her free hand and stroked his cheek, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead.

With a shift of her weight, he was inside of her. Helen's breath caught in her throat and she swallowed hard, her muscles tightening around his length as he sank deeper.

"My God, Helen..."

"Slowly, James," she whispered. She pecked his lips and moved against him, using her muscles to stroke his erection. She closed her eyes and relaxed against the wardrobe, letting him thrust into her. She knew he wouldn't last long, so she whispered, "Stroke me. Your fingers, James."

His hand moved between them and found her clit. Helen cried out in pleasure, baring her throat to James' hungry lips.

Soon, far too soon, he suddenly withdrew. He gasped and shivered, and Helen felt the warm spread of his ejaculate on her upper thigh. She stroked his hair, whispering in his ear as he shuddered, spent and sagging against her. She held him, accepting his weight in her arms, until he had the strength to push away from her.

"I apologize, Helen."

"I should apologize to you, James," she said. "I know too well how you feel, and to toy with your emotions like this is wicked."

He silenced her with a kiss, and she rested against the wardrobe again. "It was within my power to make you forget your pain, however briefly. I am happy to be of service." He knelt and removed a handkerchief from his suit jacket, staying on his knees as he wiped Helen's thigh clean. Once the evidence of his orgasm was gone, he bent forward and kissed the supple skin of her thigh. Helen shivered and stroked his hair, smiling when he finally stood again.

"Thank you, James."

He kissed her cheek and smirked. "Should you require my services again, you know where to find me."

She smiled sadly and let him close her robe around her legs. He stroked her hair and made sure she could stand on her own before he stepped away. "Good night, Helen. We'll reconvene in the morning for our mission of mercy."

"Yes," Helen said. "I look forward to it."

James bowed slightly from the waist before he turned and left the room. Helen touched her cheek, not surprised to find she was blushing, and crossed the room to her bed. She doubted she would get much sleep that night.

#

Dawn had yet to break, and what little light was provided by the moon was diffused by the thick pea soup fog. Their carriage stood at the end of the block, ready to make a quick getaway with the women. Helen and James left Arthur in the carriage to act as their lookout and driver. James was prepared to force the lock, but Echo had left it open in anticipation of their arrival. Helen led the way into the darkness, knowing that any security they encountered would hesitate to harm a woman. She had a revolver concealed in her muffler, ready to pull at a moment's notice.

The corridors of the theatre were winding, confusing, and seemingly endless. But they finally arrived at a den of bedrooms. One door was open, and Helen flicked her lighter and held it out to illuminate her face. "Echo?"

The girl came out of her room, saw Helen, and closed her eyes briefly. Seconds later, the other doors opened and her identical sisters exited. They all wore plain, cotton nightgowns that contrasted with their alluring stage costumes. Helen saw they weren't identical copies; besides the hair color, some were taller, or thinner, or more rotund than their counterpart across the hall. Helen assumed that was what made the illusions in Zielinski's show more convincing. If he employed an entire army of perfect look-alikes, people would have figured out the truth long ago.

"Come this way," Helen whispered. "Zielinski?"

Echo said, "Sleeping still. His room is on the level above ours."

Helen wondered how often one of these girls, or Echo herself, had been up to that room. The thought sickened her. "Tell your sisters to go with my friend, James. He'll get you all to safety. Go, now. Please."

"What about you?" Echo asked.

"I have another task. Tell me... what does Mr. Zielinski do with the bodies of your slain sisters?"

#

Arthur had the foresight to attach a secondary wagon to his carriage, but still room was at a premium. James escorted the women down the sidewalk, and Arthur helped find them space in the carriage so they wouldn't be crowded. The two men repeated assurances to the women they would be safe, that no harm would come to them. Echo was the last to arrive, and James looked past her to the empty street. "Where is Helen?"

"She said she had another task," Echo said as they ran to the carriage. "She asked me where Master Zielinski keeps the bodies of our fallen sisters, and I told her they were in the basement beneath the theatre."

Arthur said, "What does Dr. Magnus plan to do?"

"Something more kind than wise, I'm certain," James muttered. "Get the girls to safety. I'll--"

Helen appeared through the haze then, running quickly. James ran to meet her, ushering her toward the carriage. Her clothes reeked of smoke. "My God, Helen. What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Helen said. She climbed onto the drivers' bench with Arthur and James sat beside her as he motioned for Arthur to start riding. Arthur grabbed the reins and the horses started off at a fast trot.

James said, "You didn't... tell me Zielinski is still alive, Helen."

"Of course," Helen said. "I started a fire in the basement of the theatre where Zielinski was keeping those poor girls. The fire brigade will discover them shortly."

Arthur laughed. "Master Zielinski may wish she had burned him up instead. He'll have a fair bit of explaining to do once they get there."

Helen nodded and looked at James. He smiled at her, and then looked at Arthur. "Remember our deal, Conan Doyle," he said sharply. "We helped you discover Zielinski's secret, and you kill Sherlock Holmes. Preferably in a heroic and dignified manner."

"Of course, of course," Conan Doyle said. "The things I've seen with you, James, the sides of this world you've shown me... who needs silly stories when there's a whole wondrous world out there waiting to be seen and experienced?" He cleared his throat and shrugged. "There is, of course, a matter of my contracts. I have a few stories left to publish, you know, and I must write a few other tales to provide the wolves at my door with a full collection." James started to protest, but Arthur stopped him before he could speak. "There's no need to worry. Sherlock's days are numbered; two or three years at most.

James slumped against the back of the bench, resigned at Sherlock's stay of execution. Helen just smiled at him.

Arthur looked at Helen and his expression brightened. "Of course, I may use those extra stories to explore a new hero to follow." He looked at Helen. "Perhaps a female heroine this time."

Helen scoffed. "Spare us another Amelia Butterworth or Violet Strange. And if you make me a spinster, I shall be quite cross."

James said, "She's right, Arthur. Your readers will never accept Helen Magnus as a sleuth." He met Helen's eye and smiled. "Perhaps a thief."

Helen laughed. "A thief! Well done, James. Yes, Mr. Conan Doyle. If you must write of me, make me a brilliant thief. The equal of Mr. Holmes."

"It would be my honor. It will be the first story of my next collection. As for the name... Helen. Helene... Irene. Irene the Confounding. The Confusing."

"A bit on the nose," James said.

Helen suggested, "Irene the Addling."

Arthur waved them off. "Plenty of time to deal with that later," he said. "Right now we have to get these ladies someplace safe."

Helen and James looked at each other, both smiling in the darkness. "We have just the place," Helen said.

Arthur reined the horses to move faster, using the thick fog to obscure their retreat as the bells of the fire brigade began to fill the night behind them. The bodies of Echo's poor sisters would be found, and she knew not even a magician would be able to talk his way out of something that horrendous. Echo and her sisters were safe. She reached down and gripped James' hand, squeezing it until he looked at her. They shared a smile as Arthur Conan Doyle raced their carriage through the streets of London.


End file.
